


country roads take me home to the place i belong (NOT HERE)

by revolution_but_civilization



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (no it's not but he thinks it is), 1822, Canon Era, Courfeyrac being Courfeyrac, EXCEPT courfeyrac, Gen, I mean come on, Picnics, Pre-Canon, a life, and also chaotic, and also neat, chapter 2 there's a mention of alcohol?, combeferre wants to go home, courf is 15, courfeyrac has dad issues or something, courfeyrac is apparently jean paul marat, especially as a 15 year old, even though absinthe has nothing to do with this, ferre is 15 or 16, ferre needs friends, ferre's name cracks me up, geez what was i thinking, has nothing to do with this either, he should figure that out, he's a nerd, i don't make the rules, i got distracted halfway through this, i just think he's neat, i love these geeks so much, i think he's great, i will stand by him, idk either, it's nice!, it's the product of too much internet research, mothmannnnn, or anything, or anything else i'm doing, or like, or something interesting to happen, somewhere in the south of france, the country is so boooooring, they go on a picnic!, with researching absinthe, with this title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24154996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolution_but_civilization/pseuds/revolution_but_civilization
Summary: The first time Courfeyrac and Combeferre met. 1822, somewhere in the south of France.
Relationships: Combeferre & Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), They're just friends - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. un

**Author's Note:**

> I relate to Courfeyrac because I too am a chaotic teenager who plans to sulk about his father and lot in life and talks about the Romantic poets too much.

Of all the things that Combeferre hated about his family’s new country home, the opportunity to examine the natural world around him was not counted among them. However, no matter how educational or interesting the nature he found on his daily walks was, he couldn’t help but feel all too alone. There were always people rushing past their Paris home, and some sort of trouble was always going on and primed for a boy to get into, but here in the country, it was only him, his parents, and his sisters for miles. At least, as far as he could tell. He loved his family, truly, he did, but he couldn’t help but wish for something, anything, to come and disturb their routine.

That something happened to be neither a new species of bird nor a sudden declaration that the family would be moving back to Paris, but another teenage boy.

Combeferre was on his second walk of the day, a particularly hot, humid day. His older sisters had taken to their rooms in fits of pique, and his mother was trying, to no avail, to get the younger girls to complete their needlework. There was nothing there for him to do, not unless he wanted to bother his father for access to the home’s library again, which never worked. The alternative, trying to help his mother, was so unimaginably boring that he feared if he tried he’d never survive.

So lost in his thoughts of sheer boredom was he that he almost walked right past the boy sitting on the stone wall. “Hello there.”

He looked up, and only then noticed that he wasn’t alone. Only a few meters away perched a curly-haired boy, crunching on an apple and looking to be up to no good.

“Hello,” Combeferre replied politely, and moved a couple steps forward. Did rules of etiquette apply out in the country? In case they did, he added, “I am Jean-Francois Maxime Jacques Combeferre. I live—”

“Oh, I know where you live!” the boy responded cheerily. “My brother told us when you moved in.” He hopped nimbly down from the wall, tossing the half-eaten apple behind him. “I am Félix Courfeyrac. Half as many names as you, and twice the personality, I guarantee it.” With that verbal jab, he stuck out his hand, still sticky with juice from the apple. “Pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Combeferre.”

Thrown off by, well, everything that came out of this boy’s mouth, Combeferre didn’t realize the intent of the extended hand, and just stared at it until the other retracted. “Alright then.”

“You… live around here?” Combeferre’s brain finally caught up.

“Yeah! Just down the street.” Courfeyrac gestured vaguely behind him down the dusty path, as though that would clarify anything. His eyes lit up. “Hey! I am planning on being displeased with my father and lot in life tomorrow and sulking like a grand Romantic poet—would you like to go on a picnic with me?” Without even waiting for Combeferre to acknowledge, he nodded furiously and broke out in a grin. “Fantastic. Meet me here tomorrow in the morning. Ta-ta now!”

With that, he skipped off like some sort of imp, ignoring Combeferre’s shout for him to come back and iron out the few and vague details that had been provided.


	2. deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops turns out there's going to be at least one more chapter after this because I like writing about these nerds so much
> 
> warning: there's a mention of alcohol and they try to drink it but immediately spit it out because alcohol = yuck. don't ever try it underage, kids!

The next morning, against his better judgement, Combeferre found himself once more by the wall, a basket of food in his hands. His mother had wholeheartedly supported the idea the second he told her about it, and insisted on sending him with an entire apple pie she had made the previous week, along with several loaves of bread. Possibly she had no clue how much food it was humanly possible for two boys to eat.

A hand covered his eyes from behind, and he heard a cheerful voice say, “Guess who!”

“Jean-Paul Marat,” Combeferre deadpanned, earning him a laugh.

“Nope, but close.” Courfeyrac released him, then nodded towards a large wicker basket he had set down on the path. “I managed to bring some brioche that our cook made. And…” He glanced around conspiratorially, as though to make sure the empty road was indeed empty, then leaned closer to Combeferre. “I snuck one of my father’s wine bottles, because what fun is being a Romantic if you have no wine?”

“That is a thoroughly awful idea, and many of the Romantics actually—”

The freckled boy _tsk_ ed. “Though I am more than sure that you could lecture me about the great poets and some of my more dismal life choices, I am going to stop you right there. We are young, and there is no call to waste our youth.” He picked up the basket and beamed at Combeferre. “Shall we go?”

“I see no reason not to.”

Courfeyrac laughed at that, already clambering over the wall and into the field behind. For his part, Combeferre hesitated, at least until the other boy turned around. “You coming?”

“Alright.” He carefully climbed the wall, being careful not to rip his trousers, and caught up to Courfeyrac.

The two of them walked silently for several minutes through the field of knee-high grass. Finally, they approached a copse of beech trees, and Courfeyrac gestured triumphantly at a small clearing. “There it is!” He paused for a second. “Did you happen to bring a blanket?” At Combeferre’s shake of the head, he shrugged. “We can sit on these roots here.”

He plopped down on one of the bigger roots, leaning back against the trunk of the tree and squinting up at Combeferre. “Take a seat and stay a while.”

“Hah.” Combeferre chuckled and sat down. “Well. I brought an apple pie.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes lit up. “An apple pie? Give it to me!” He made grabby hands until the other boy unpacked the basket and handed it to him. “Beautiful,” he sighed, breathing in the aroma. “Parbleu, I cannot remember the last time I had one of these.”

“Eat the entire thing then. I am not all that partial to apples.” Combeferre dug in his basket further, and pulled out the loaves of bread. “I also have these. But you have brioche, so I see no need for regular bread.”

“Qu'ils mangent de la brioche,” Courfeyrac murmured, already endeavoring to determine the best way to eat the pie without making a mess.

Combeferre made a non-committal noise, then reached across to grab Courfeyrac’s basket. “You said that you took some of your father’s wine? I suppose we are obliged to try that.” He opened the bottle up, took a careful sip, and immediately spat it back out. “Disgusting! Here, you try.”

The other boy took an impressively large swig, swishing it around in his mouth and then spitting it out as well. “You are absolutely correct,” he said with a grin. “There go my plans to be a melancholy Romantic.”

They passed the food back and forth, eating a bit too much. Even Combeferre eventually consented to try some of the pie despite his distaste for apples, and found that it was remarkably good. Once they finally accepted that to eat more would be to sicken themselves, Combeferre packed the leftovers back into their baskets.

“And what shall we do now?”

Courfeyrac shot him a mischievous smile. “Well, I would like to get to know you better, seeing as you seem to be the only vaguely tolerable person within a ten-mile radius. Pass me one of those bread loaves, please.”


	3. trois

“—went to Switzerland. For my part, I would love to go to Switzerland.” Courfeyrac tossed a chunk of bread at a duck family floating past. “But my father says that one doctor is enough and that I am to study law in Paris.” He looked curiously at Combeferre. “What about you?”

Combeferre shrugged, watching as a couple of the ducklings swam over to the soggy wad of bread. “I know that my mother and father discuss my future, but I have never been privy to those discussions. I suppose they will have to approach me with their suggestions sooner or later.”

“Hmm.”

“I have heard that Paris has excellent schools. Perhaps I will be sent there as well.”

“Mmm.” Courfeyrac threw the last piece of the loaf into the water, disturbing a frog sitting on the banks. “It would be nice if you were.”

\---

“—so she called me Robespierre for a week afterwards.”

Courfeyrac laughed so hard that he almost fell off the tree branch he was hanging off of. “That is truly hilarious. Oh, once when my brother—”

\---

“—and I have been to those Royalist salons, of course.”

Combeferre nodded in agreement, pausing from his second go at seeing if any of the leftovers were worth eating now.

“Ah, you have too. They never struck me as being particularly… I do not quite know how to phrase it. Hmm… well, it seems to me that the Royalists have simply become old and rich and crabby. There is no sort of… appeal? yes, appeal— there is no appeal in that belief system.”

“It is a bit outdated?”

“Exactly. I am more than sure that the future holds something more… modern.”

After that proclamation, Courfeyrac squinted up at the sun, which had almost touched the horizon. “It seems to be getting late. I am sure your mother will be worrying. We ought to head back.”

“Of course.”

The two boys made their way up to their feet, brushing grass off their trousers and picking up the baskets.

“Well…” Courfeyrac started. “This was a good day.” 

“To more good days.” Combeferre raised his basket in a mock-toast, making Courfeyrac laugh.

“To all the good days.” He stuck out his hand to Combeferre, and this time the taller boy shook it. “Thank you for spending this one with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> then of course they meet up again like five years later in paris and become best friends  
> \----------------------------  
> real (though unrelated) talk though----  
> why are all the actors who played the barricade boys in the 2012 movie so attractive?  
> stuff like that is why i'm probably into boys


End file.
